


Get the Milk for Free

by Anonymous_ID



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Always Female Dean Winchester, Breastfeeding, Dean Has Breasts, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Lactation, Lactation Kink, Milk, Older Man/Younger Woman, Sexual Content, non-specific underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-04 23:33:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12178650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_ID/pseuds/Anonymous_ID
Summary: response to SPN Kink Meme prompt: Dean 14-17 has nicely developed breasts, size appropriate or slightly over but nothing too huge or too small. For whatever reason, she begins to lactate (spell, curse, pregnancy, whatever) and John considers it an inconvenience until she soaks through a t-shirt and someone offers him cash (or not) to suck at her tits...During the process he notices Dean squirms through the whole thing, not because its uncomfortable but because a mouth on her nipples has her panting like she's in heat and her hips hitching like crazy. Would like John to get off on watching her more than anything...Original prompt here: https://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/127377.html?replyto=44236945Non-con warning is due to non-explicit underage/teenage characters rather than any particular nonconsensual behavior, but read the tags and proceed with caution. May write more of this (and am open to suggested tags if anyone things something isn't covered)





	1. Chapter 1

John blames Ellen, which may be a little unfair, since she’d been doing him a favor watching the kids at the last minute when a hunting opportunity arose.  He blames Sam, who should know better than to do his sister’s research for her.  And, though he never admits it, he blames Mary a little: boys he can handle, but she shouldn’t have left them to raise a teenaged girl!

Ellen says she's not surprised, that Dean and Jo are just 'at that age,' that girls talk, that they obsess about their looks, about how they compare to others.  “Don’t tell me boys don’t worry about their…” Ellen raises an eyebrow, “size.” (John rolls his eyes.  Everyone knows boys are _different_.  And he’s not just saying that because he’s well-endowed.)

Sam says he was only trying to help: “Dean asked me to pick the herbs on the list, so I did.”  He looks so genuinely mystified that John is pretty sure he had no idea what he was helping with.  Of course, as far as Sam is concerned, working on a spell from Ellen's Mayfield Grimoire _and_ helping his adored older sister at the same time was pretty much a dream come true.

Mary, of course, isn’t around to say anything. 

John finally confronts Dean herself.  She fidgets in front of him, shoulders hunched in a sulk. In retrospect, of course, there were signs: she’d been jumpier, holding herself carefully still, but then squirming like she had an itch; she’d wriggled out of his hugs when he’d returned from hunting, but then snagged his oldest, softest flannel right out of the clean laundry.  But John had attributed it to the awkwardness of growing up. An expansion spell?  That had never crossed his mind. Heightened sensitivity, Ellen had said, milk production leading to increased size and tenderness.  The spells were meant to be used for hunters’ women in times of famine; they were _not_ intended for vain teenaged girls who wanted to better fill out their cheer-leading uniforms.  John gives Dean his sternest look when he explains that, and she does look a little abashed. Doesn't even give him a smart remark about how she wouldn't be caught dead in any kind of uniform.

“Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Dean mumbles.

“Yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And?”

“And I’ll never do it again,” Dean concludes, singsong. 

John suspects she’s teasing him, figures she'll get away with this they way she has with so many other things, by looking at him with those big, green eyes and doing her Daddy’s-little-girl routine. Nevertheless, he reigns in his temper.

“I know it’s hard, Dee.  Moving all the time and having to make new friends.  High schoolers can be…” he edits out his first, vulgar epithet and settles on, “ _tough_ on new kids.  But your body is a tool, a weapon—you gotta let it be what it’s meant to be, not go experimenting with hair-brained spells.”

“Ellen can reverse it,” says Dean, like that excuses her behavior.

John sighs.  He blames himself, too: he should never have been so permissive.  Should have kept a closer eye on her these last few years. “No, she won’t.”

Dean, still sulking, doesn’t notice the steel in her father’s voice. “Yeah, she can, too!  She says we just ha—”

“Maybe Ellen _can_ reverse this magic,” John interrupts, “but she won’t.  I won’t allow it.  You got yourself into this mess, and you’ll have to deal with the consequences.”

It’s almost funny, Dean’s wide-eyed astonishment.  She’s gotten too used to bossing around Sammy, to batting her eyelashes and getting whatever she wants from the teen boys in her class.  She’s forgotten that discipline and responsibility make for the best hunters. 

“Does it hurt?” John asks and Dean clearly considers lying for a moment before her pride wins out.

“No,” she admits. 

“Well, then.  No excuses.” He scrutinizes his daughter.  She looks the same—same bow-legged, hip-shot stance; same broad shoulders.  Maybe there’s a little more going on under that plaid shirt she took from him, but John can’t say he’s ever really thought about it before.  Anyway, if she’s not in pain, then there’s no reason not to use this as a learning opportunity.   “Go tell Sammy to pack up those library books.  Told Bobby we’d stop by 'n if we don't hit the road soon, we'll be driving all night.”

John lets Sammy ride shotgun on the way to the junkyard; he doesn’t have the patience for Dean’s pouting.  Sam is only too happy to sit up front and chatter on about his science project and his spelling tests.  Dean slouches in the back, staring out the window.  John glances occasionally in the rear-view mirror and, you know, with her arms crossed like that, he can maybe see a differ…Dean glances up and John’s eyes shoot back to the road in front of them.

The turnoff to the junkyard is in worse condition than usual.  They’ve had a rough winter and the gravel road is pitted and potholed.  John drives slowly to save the Impala’s suspension but the third time he hits a pothole, he hears a stifled gasp from the back seat.  The rear-view mirror shows Dean bracing herself on the worn seat.  He drives straight at the next one:  another intake of breath as she jostles.  This time loud enough that Sam notices.

“You should wear your seatbelt, Dean.  Daddy, Dean’s not wearing her…oh, look!  A new puppy!”  Sam is quickly distracted from his tattling by the appearance of a new mutt on Bobby’s porch.  John’s barely got the car in park before Sam is untangling himself from his own seatbelt and racing after the dog.

A moment of silence, just the tick of the Impala’s engine cooling. 

“Thought you said it didn’t hurt,” John says at last.

“It didn’t.  Not when we started!” Dean’s tone is snotty. John turns in his seat and gives her a look and, surprisingly, she subsides.  “Sorry,” she mutters.  “Doesn’t really, you know.  Hurt.  Just feels kinda.  Full.  And bouncing around…”

“Let me see.”  John expects her to fuss a little (Dean never likes to admit she’s hurt), but, again, she gives in quickly.  Too quickly? She unbuttons her flannel.  Underneath, she’s got a camisole on, worn thin and pale blue by too many cheap Laundromats.  One of her ‘nice’ bras, the ones she won’t let him throw in the laundry with everything else. John can’t see anything wrong.  The tops of her…Jesus, is he really studying his own daughter’s breasts?—well, they look a little swollen, but nothing outrageous.  She’s flushed all across her collarbones, but John suspects that’s just embarrassment.  Well, maybe next time she’ll think twice before trying Grimoire spells on herself.

“Maybe you should take off, uh…”

“Yeah, ok.  Gonna do that.”  Dean stutters before she has to listen to her father say the word _bra._ She hustles out of the car, holding her shoulders just a little too stiffly to be natural, buttoning her shirt up wrong as she goes.

Bobby has arrived by then, wandered over from whatever corner of the yard he’d been working on, and he and John study the documents John had discovered on his hunt.  Ellen had called to say they were coming, so Bobby’s stocked up on beer, though little else.  Bobby lives so far off the grid that even the pizza place won’t deliver, and John’s slightly buzzed when he drives into town to pick up their order. Good news is, almost no traffic this far out. 

Bobby’s waiting on the front porch when John returns, and he looks strangely serious.

“Something you should see,” is all he’ll say.

They leave Sam to serve himself some pizza (and, John suspects,feed some to the puppy). John follows Bobby down the one narrow hall to the bathroom.  There is a line of white powder on the floor. Salt.

“Where’s—?” John starts, and then Bobby knocks on the door.

Dean opens it and Bobby hustles them in so quickly that John barely has a second to wonder what all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense is about.  And then he notices that Dean’s shed the plaid flannel shirt and taken his advice about removing her, uh, bra.  He’s aware of this because the front of her little camisole is wet and transparent.   Her nipples are cherry-red under the sheer fabric and is that…?

“Milk,” Bobby confirms, sounding as serious as though he’s talking about a demonic possession.  “Don’t know what kinda curse it is, but I’ve got salt on the window sills and we oughta—”

“It’s an expansion spell,” sighs John.  Trust Bobby to jump right to the most serious possible explanation. 

Bobby looks confused, so John continues. “She did it to herself.  She and Jo, fussing around with the Mayfield Grimoire at the Roadhouse.”

“Balls!”  Bobby grouses, but he sounds relieved.  “That explains it.” And then, looking suspiciously at Dean, “Came on mighty quick, though. You been playin’ with yourself?”

He’s so gruff and matter-of-fact that Dean finds herself nodding.

“L’il.”  She’s just been so _sensitive_.  Just been a pleasant tickle at first, a barely-there warmth that made her oddly aware of her body.  But then she’d started to feel…full.  Even that had been okay until she’d jounced along two miles of bad road in the backseat of the Impala.  By the time she’d made it into the bathroom, she’d already started leaking.  How was she to know that the more she touched, the more her tits would fill?  Jo hadn’t mentioned that part.    

“Sore?”  Bobby asks, and Dean nods again, too distracted to feel embarrassed.

“That’s cause you’re so swole up. We gotta release some’a that…” Bobby is as straightforward as if they're talking about removing a splinter. 

It’s almost comical, the three of them squeezed into Bobby’s tiny bathroom, and Dean as good as naked in that little top.  In five minutes, Sammy will get curious and come banging on the door so Bobby finally suggests that Dean express some of the milk into the sink, but she’s _so_ swollen that she just _knows_ it will hurt.  She bites her lip, shakes her head.  She’s ashamed to find herself tearing up.  Hunters aren’t supposed to be frightened of anything, and this isn’t even really pain, but it’s also not like anything else she’s known—her chest, her whole torso, feels warm and good, but just on the edge of too much.  Part of her thinks that _too much_ will be wonderful, but the other part knows the devil wears many disguises.

Bobby looks at John, flummoxed but Dean’s refusal to bow to the logic of his recommendation. He’s never had much to do with children, never had any patience for people who don’t share his logical mindset.

But John knows Dean’s not nearly as stubborn as she makes out.

“C’mere,”  he says gently, sitting on the edge of the tub.  Dean sits next to him, still chewing on her bottom lip, refusing to meet his eyes.  “Sounds like Bobby’s seen this before…”

“Not so sudden, like,” Bobby interrupts.  “Don’t know what you and Jo thought you were doing to yourselves—”

John shakes his head, cuts him off ( _not helping, Bobby_ ).  “Doesn’t matter; what’s done is done.  But like I was saying, Bobby’s seen this before, so let’s you and me just let him do what he’s gotta do.  I’ll stay right here next to you.”

Dean’s eyes flicker up to meet his.  “Promise?”

And John figures he deserves that, for all the times he’s left Dean and Sammy on their own.  “Promise,” he says. 

So they end up perched next to each other on the side of Bobby’s old clawfooted tub, Dean pressed up against John’s side, her head tucked under his chin.  Bobby eases the wringing wet fabric up over the swell of her breasts.  They don’t look much bigger than usual, but that's because Dean's always had an athletic build.  Now she's engorged to bursting: John can tell from the way her tits stand out rigidly from her chest, as round and firm as implants he’s seen late at night in motels with Pay-per-view.  Her nipples are hard and pink as pencil erasers. Dean shudders against him when Bobby gently draws a single finger along the underside of her left breast and John instinctively puts his arm around her.  White fluid—milk, John thinks, dizzy: his daughter’s milk—wells up and drips, just from Bobby’s touch.  That's how full she is. Bobby dabs it away with one of the worn but clean rags he keeps around for bandages. He starts again.  This time he pinches a little and Dean gasps and twists against John, her hips bucking hard.  If he hadn’t had his arm bracing her back, she’d have tumbled into the tub. 

It takes five minutes to saturate Bobby’s old hand-towel.  By that time, Dean’s squirmed her way right into John’s lap. She writhes each time Bobby touches her, but her gasps have tapered into quiet whimpers. Her tits still look heavy, although the nipples seem to have softened.  At this rate, they’ll be going all night. John has never wished for one of Sammy’s interruptions so badly in his life.  He shouldn’t be thinking about this, but the way Dean is gasping, the way she's moving against him...he's not sure Bobby's touch is entirely unpleasant. The thought makes a hot, shameful flush crawl over his skin.  His daughter needs looking to, and he can’t call things off now—not when this was practically his idea—but Dean’s fidgeting hips square on his own is starting to…well, to have an effect.  Finally, Bobby leans back, his knees cracking. 

“Not sure this is the best way to go about it…” he admits, and John is feeling so light-headed, he might just pass out from relief.  Or from having all his blood concentrated in his dick, which is currently two layers of denim away from Dean’s wriggling ass.  

Dean mumbles something from where’s she’s buried her head in John’s shoulder.

“What’s that, girl?”

Bobby’s got a cheap mirror above his sink and John can see Dean’s reflection when she turns her head. She looks flushed and shy, glassy-eyed.  “Mouth…could you try, uhm.  With your mouth?”

Bobby looks up at John, not sure if this is a step too far.

“Let’s try it,” John manages, “if she wants to...”  He wonders if Bobby can hear the strain in his voice, if he realizes just how deeply Dean’s been grinding against him each time Bobby coaxes out a little more milk.

“If you say so…” Bobby shrugs, pragmatic as always where supernatural cures are concerned.

Clumsily, Dean loops her legs over John’s, so Bobby can kneel between them.  The position shifts her trim little pelvis right against John’s cock and he grips her hips to keep her from moving any closer.  He’s pretty sure his eyes are rolling heavenward when they catch a glimpse of the mirror: he witnesses his teenaged daughter, a slightly desperate look on her face, cupping one perfect, pear-shaped breast and offering it to his oldest friend.

John can tell the moment the Bobby truly latches on, because Dean goes limp in his arms. 

“Oh,” Dean breathes, eyelids fluttering closed, a calm expression washing over her face, “Oh!”

Bobby sucks quick and hard, no-nonsense, like a man drawing poison from a wound.  John knows because soon Dean’s hips have taken up the rhythm, hitching each time the pressure stops.  That’s when John confirms she’s not in pain.  At least, not anymore.  Maybe Bobby’s taken the edge off, maybe Dean’s just grown accustomed to the fullness, but she’s certainly moving like she’s enjoying the suckle, like she’s forgotten the circumstances that have led to the warm, wet mouth on her sensitive, stretched tits.  

Slowly, John relaxes his hands—the crest of Dean’s hip feels sharp and fragile in his big fingers—and lets Dean slump fully against him.  If she’s aware of his cock thickening under her, she doesn’t show it.  Her head is lolling against John’s shoulder, eyes closed, mouth open, needy little puffs of air escaping even as her breaths thrust her nipple against Bobby’s lips.  Her shirt, the little spaghetti-strap camisole, is bunched up by her collarbones, leaving her naked to the waist.  She leans forward, wanting _more,_  and John is treated to the long, smooth stretch of her back, the gap where her jeans reveal her plain cotton panties. If her hips keep up that swiveling little _push_ …John has the sudden temptation to pop the button on his pants, let his cockhead dab against her lower back, against that divot where her spine dips into her jeans.

And then it’s over.  A final, wet smacking suck and Bobby stands up, dusting off his old overalls like he’s done nothing more than change the oil in one of his beat-up wrecks

“There, that should hold for a bit.”  And John, dazed, would swear he’s actually heard Bobby say the same after an oil change.   He thinks he hears Dean whine, just a little, but he can’t be sure—not with the way the blood is pumping in his ears.

“Oughtn’t to have let it gone so long, Dean—you hear me?” Bobby wipes his lips with the back of his hand.

Dean nods, her hair feather-light against John’s sweaty neck.  The air in the bathroom is clammy and hot; John feels stunned, bewildered, like he’s emerging from a fever-dream.

“Probl’y gonna have to stop tomorrow, if you’re on the road.  That should be the worst of it, though.” Bobby continues, squinting like he’s trying to picture sections of the Mayfield Grimoire.  He turns on the sink, rinses his hands. “These things usually don’t last much beyond three days.  Hope you learned your lesson.”

Dean, who seems as befuddled as John, realizes something is required of her, says, “Yes, Uncle Bobby,” as meek as you please.

“Good, then,” Bobby shakes the water off his hands, gathers up the milk-damp towels from the floor, and says, almost to himself, “Just gonna throw these in the machine…”

When he opens the bathroom door, the gust of air makes Dean shiver, a wracking spasm that causes John’s dick to twitch hopefully, like maybe there will be a repeat performance.  She holds herself rigid for a moment, suddenly aware of the size and girth.  Okay, John supposes that thinking of himself as simply _well-endowed_ is perhaps an understatement, but surely there’s some parental, responsible thing to say… While he’s trying to think of it, though, Dean simply eases back against him.

In John’s mind, Dean has always stayed roughly Sammy’s age.  That’s partially because he shies away from the very idea of _teenage girl,_ and partially because he’s been away for such long swathes of her childhood.  He missed the point where she stopped being a child altogether.  But there’s no denying the knowledge he’d felt in the way her body moved against him.  _Developed_ is the word Ellen had used ( _keep an eye on that girl, you hear John Winchester—she’s developing_ _into a young woman_ ).  Bobby had thought it was a possession, and John can see the logic: he can’t quite believe that he just held his daughter, bare-breasted, while she suckled and squirmed like she wanted more. That thought should fill him with shame, but in fact, it absolves him. It’s like he has a stranger in his lap.  A developed, sexual being, not his little girl at all. 

And then Dean stretches, languorous, working those sinful hips against him one last time.

“Help me with this?” she asks, tugging at her twisted camisole, and John finds himself untangling the straps and pulling it over her head.  Dean stands.  Her breasts are firm and lovely, still a good handful, but softer-looking now, the nipples pale and puffy as she slips John’s old flannel shirt over her shoulders and starts to button up.  John wonders when they’ll start to fill again.  Tomorrow, Bobby had said, would be _the worst of it._   


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags still apply--and how!

The next day, the Winchesters make it nearly 400 miles before Dean starts to squirm.  John has been watching her covertly in the rear-view mirror, has noticed her growing quieter, not even baiting Sam.  He has seen the way her head tips onto the back of the Impala’s seat, her throat flushed and gleaming with sweat where it disappears into that unseasonable flannel. 

They’d stopped for gas and gas station snacks ("lunch"), but Dean had sat rigidly, picking at her food and breathing shallowly. Fifty miles later, Sammy’s dropped off to sleep, curled around his comic book in the passenger seat.  Glancing in the mirror, John sees Dean has undone a few buttons.  He knows it’s not the shirt that feels too tight, but her own skin.

“How you doing back there?” he asks, voice pitched low to keep from waking Sammy, but coming out more growled than he’d intended.

Dean’s eyes gleam, feverish, when they meet John’s in the mirror.  “Fine,” Dean licks her lips.  “I’m.  It’s fine.  Like, uh.  Like yesterday.” She pauses. “Well, maybe just a little, uhm.  More?”

“You tell me if you wanna stop or something,” John instructs, and Dean nods—carefully, so as not to shift her shoulders.

She won’t.  John knows Dean would rather explode than admit weakness, so he’s floored when, not ten minutes later, she says breathily, “Daddy.  Gotta knife?”

John can get his hunting blade out of the glove compartment one-handed, with his eyes on the road and without waking Sam.  He has to take his foot off the accelerator though when he hears the rasp of the knife biting through wet fabric and a barely stifles moan of relief.  Dean has just sliced through the bandages he’d gently helped her wrap around her tender breasts before they’d left Bobby’s.  The very idea of a bra had made her wince, but Bobby had said she’d need something “to absorb it all”—not specifying that “it” was enchanted milk. They’d used nearly a roll of bandages, plus whatever gauze they could find in their very well stocked first aid kits.  And Dean’s just soaked through it all in a matter of hours.

John feels his cock twitch as he imagines the sweet release of being freed from the binding bandage, but his cock really starts to thicken when he realizes the obvious corollary: Dean’s breasts are filling faster than they’d ever anticipated, and now she’s got nothing to support them.

Sure enough, he can hear the old leather of the Impala creak, the springs complain, as she shifts to find a more comfortable position.  Shifts again, always in vain.  She makes it another ten minutes—his Dean always was a stubborn one—before she says, “Daddy?  C’n we stop? Please?” 

There’s just the faintest pleading in her voice, but she whimpers when they leave the smooth tarmac of the interstate for the rougher exit ramp.  John pulls into the first lot he sees: a chain restaurant that looks empty at this time of day.  There are only four other cars in the lot, so John pulls into the shade of the building.  Dean moves so gingerly that Sam doesn’t even stir when she gets out of the car.  John figures they’re good to leave the kid for a few minutes…it’s easier than explaining.  Not until he rolls down the windows does he realizes how much the sweet scent of Dean’s milk, faint as cream, had permeated the Impala.

The restaurant is as deserted as John had calculated: a mediocre chain off a poorly-maintained exit in the middle of nowhere.  The good news is there seems to be one other diner, a business traveler in a crummy suit.  The bad news is the bored waiter (whose badge reads “Hi! My name is Ben!” under the chain’s cartoon logo) appears instantly.

“Hi,” he says, “I’m Ben and it’s my pleasure to serve you today.  Table for two?”

“My pleasure…” Dean echoes dreamily.

“Booth,” John corrects quickly.  “We’d like a booth somewhere a little, uh, private.  On that side.” He points to the side of the restaurant where he’ll be able to keep an eye on Sammy in the Impala, and where they will be invisible to the other customer.

Ben shrugs and leads them to a booth.  They’re out of his section, far from the kitchen, but when business is this bad, the customer is always right.

Dean settles in right next to John on the padded bench of the booth and she feels warm even in the arctic chill of the over-airconditioned restaurant.  Their corner is dark: the window tinted against the prairie sun, shielded by thickly swagged curtains,  any noise swallowed up by the navy upholstery on the overstuffed booth. John figures he can sneak her into the restroom once the waiter leaves, but he’s underestimated the lassitude Dean feels when she’s this _full_.  Now that she’s seated and not rocketing down the highway at 70 MPH, Dean doesn’t plan to move until she’s empty.

“C’mon, you’ll feel better when it’s out,” he’s coaxing when Ben appears with iced water and complimentary bread-sticks.

“Not feeling well?  Is there anything I can—?”  Ben is roughly Dean’s age, John estimates: this is probably his first real job and he’s determined to make a go of it.  He’s ready to fetch more water, ask in the kitchen for aspirin, even advise on the local hospital (twenty-seven highway exits away: they really are in the middle of nowhere).  He is not ready for the feverish girl in the back booth to hike up her damp t-shirt and reveal a pair of perfect, blue-veined breasts.

But once she does, he’s mesmerized.  Later, John will wonder if that’s because of the Grimoire spell, or if it’s just the way any teen boy would respond to a pair of unexpected tits on offer. For the moment, though, Dean is writhing against him, her breasts over-full and aching, her nipples puckered tight in the cold air. 

The boy, Ben, looks pole-axed.  Frozen.  And then he puts out one hand, slowly, gently, like he half-expects Dean to disappear.  Instead, she presses into his warm hand, rewards him with her rare but brilliant smile.

“That feels so good,” she whispers, shyly, and the boy smiles back.  Dean puts her hand on Ben’s wrist, shows him how she likes to be touched, gasps once when his fingers coax out a bead of milk. 

“Can I…uh…?”  Ben isn’t sure what to say or who to ask, his eyes dart from Dean to John, still seated next to her in the booth.

“Yes,” Dean whimpers.  “Please!” 

And John figures he can’t very well say anything against it now. 

He ends up cradling Dean once again while a man—a stranger, this time—drinks from her.  Ben’s the inexperienced one this time, and Dean tugs at him until he’s on his knees, pulls him closer until his lips finally meet the pale, perfect skin of her chest.

Dean is snuggled in so close to John that he can feel the contented sigh she makes when Ben finally latches on.

“Good, little girl?”

“Uh-huh,” Dean sounds satisfied at last, the restlessness draining out of her like milk.

John knows what she needs now, and Ben is his tool to give it to her.  He kneads the tight muscles in the boy’s neck until he feels the young man relax into the suckle. 

“That’s right,” Dean croons, her hands on Ben’s shoulders, “G’boy…”

Before long, Dean’s hips start to rock, gentle and rhythmic, in time with Ben’s mouth.  Surprised, Ben tries to pull away, but John’s grip forces him back, pushes him deeper. John hears him grunt, muffled against the soft titflesh.

“Bite me,” Dean writhes, her head lolling on John’s shoulder, looking up at him with green eyes blown wide with lust.  Somehow she’s slipped into his lap. “Daddy, make him bite me!”

Dean slips lower in the crook of his arm and John pulls Ben away.  The boy barely stifles a whine.  “Shut up,” John snaps, gripping the boy’s curls until he has to meet John’s eyes. “Gentle, you hear?”

Dean’s lost the flannel overshirt somewhere and her tee is rucked up to her shoulders. John’s free hand is on the hot, bare skin of Dean’s belly, keeping her from tipping into Ben completely, and he feels the muscles there clench when Ben runs the edge of his incisor over Dean’s nipple.  He lays his palm flat, feels her tighten again, flutter, like she’s on the edge of orgasm but can’t quite…

John shoves his fingers under the waistband of her jeans, and his hand is big enough to pop the button right open, force the zipper down.   By the time Dean’s eyes meet him over the boy’s shoulder, Dean is already moving her hips, trying to get him where she wants him.  She’s wet, so wet that John think _milk_ for one confused split second, before his fingers slip past her clit and Dean jerk in his arms like she’s been electrified. 

He gets a finger into her, tries for two—fuck, she’s tight—and that seems to bank the fire. “Oh, yes…” she pants.

The boy is moving, too, hips pumping, clumsy, greedy, humping John’s leg like a dog in heat.  But John likes Ben’s hands, big and workworn but gentle against Dean’s skin, cupping her shoulderblades, holding her up to his mouth like she’s a fragile chalice.   He can’t be much older than Dean herself, young and virile and eager. A quick study, though: Dean grabs his wrist, pulls him up to her neglected left breast, and the boy starts plucking her there, firm, the way John already knows she likes it. Dean runs her own fingers through his hair, snugging him up against her, forcing him to take more of her tit.   His mouth stretches, throat working.  She could do worse, John thinks, plunging his fingers deep enough to make her thighs twitch, wanting her to cum with something inside.  And where on the road is she going to find a boy like this, steady job, hard worker, string, eager to please?  Kid her own age, not some ragged hunter who will leave her half the year and then bring danger back to her doorstep.  Back in the day, hunters gave their women to men who could treasure them.  John’s got half a mind to do that right now, peel down Dean’s panties, get her upright in his lap, hold those trembling thighs open for this simple, considerate boy. Let him fill her up, settle her down, get her tits properly heavy with milk for another generation of Winchesters.

John can picture it so clearly—Dean bowed legs hitched around the boy’s back—that he almost thinks he’s done it when he feels her hips start to churn.  Slow, because this boy suckles slower and deeper than Bobby had, but hard.  And John’s the one inside her, feels her pull and flutter around his fingers, each contraction tighter than the last, until she spasms and shudders, bucking so hard and sudden that John feels himself spill in his boxers.  She turns her head into his shoulder, quiets herself, but that night, awake in a cheap motel far away, John will wonder what might have happened if she hadn’t.  If Dean had voiced her pleasure, would he have looked up to see that other customer—middle-aged, middle-management—peeking over the edge of the booth?  Would that stranger have wanted a turn at his daughter’s breast?  Would he have wanted more? And the kitchen staff?  Line cook?  Dishwasher?  The owners of those other cars in the lot?  Would they have gotten curious when Ben never returned for his orders?  Come out to investigate, shared Dean, one to a tit? Speaking of curiosity…Sam, waking alone in the car, wandering into the restaurant, hearing the moans from the back booth? John grinds against the sprung mattress, imagining what might’ve happened next.

***

Ben had come to himself tumbled onto his ass, half under a table in the last booth in the section.  He should wonder how he got here, how long he’s been here, but he’s too sleepy, sated and sleepy.  The couple at this table, the man and the girl.  That girl with the beautiful…  He wonders if they’d maybe drugged him somehow?  With something like…Viagra?  ‘Cause he’s…uh.  Hard?  Like, _really_ hard?  So hard he has to stumble to the employees’ bathroom and rub one out, even though that’s the least sexy place in the whole world.  When he goes to clean up ( _employees must wash hands…_ ) he’s been shocked by his own reflection:  his mouth puffed, his face smeared.  Must’ve been drugs; he still has a sweet, creamy taste on the back of his tongue.  But good drugs, and the best hallucinations.  He has a clear picture of the man tracing a rivulet of milk one right up to the girl’s nipple, then sucking it right off his long, thick finger.  Couldn’t have happened that way, though.


End file.
